


a cold and a broken hallelujah

by orphan_account



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Could Be Canon, Episode Related, F/M, this is a mess oops??, yk given we dont see anything past ramsay riding in the gates & myranda falling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-05 21:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10317272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “who do i have to show proper pain?” words grit out between teeth, he is no longer smiling. there is no reason to smile upon this scene. so much blood that does not bring him pleasure. “who. tell me who.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> set during 5x10 / the mother's mercy.

               Slaughtering Stannis Baratheon's army was easy enough, he had his fun. Cutting through knights like butter, cackling the whole way through. Every life lost was one he could add to an ever growing list. He only keeps track day to day, _she's_ got it written down somewhere. The countless lives Ramsay's taken are counted somewhere. It amuses him to even think of it now, features already contorted into a grin only pull wider. He knows what she is, how she feels. **_(_** though not how he feels, that is still muddled for him. **_)_** So long as it doesn't get in the way too bad, he has no reason to worry on it.

              He expects she'll be waiting for him  **_(_ ** but oh Gods not like this.  **_)_ ** Always ready to spread legs after a battle, after a hunt, adrenaline pumping through blood. Always ready to spread legs in general. He doesn't, however, expect to see her so soon. Right through castle gates, arm twisted at a forigen angle, blood out the side of her head and flowing out of her mouth like spit up. There's no hesitation to jump down from his horse. Caution slows his step, a sudden life filled and bloody cough quickens it.

_                Normally _ this much blood would bring him glee _**(**_ her as well. _**)**_   **Normally** he would concern himself with so many eyes watching. But these are not normal circumstances. No pause comes as there's a tug to bring her into his lap, propped up enough to assess her.

               “Who do I have to show proper pain?” Words grit out between teeth, he is no longer smiling. There is no reason to smile upon this scene. So much blood that does not bring him pleasure. “ **WHO** , tell me who.”

               There's a soft, almost confused noise as eyelids peel open. Her gaze is unsteady, vision hazy. “ _ Ramsay _ ?” The word comes with a gargle of blood, sounds like a child. The tone that once defiantly threatened to set her father's hounds on him. It's a slow process until his words make sense. “Sansa,” her bodyweight lays on him, “and Reek. He tossed me over.” She's getting blood soaked against the leather of his tunic.

               It should not, and does not, surprise him. Her skin is pallor, and here he thought she was fair before hand. “I'm scared,” voice nothing above a soft whisper and yet it shakes him to the very core. Myranda does not get scared.

               She was not scared the day they met, pigtails and gaptoothed with a ornery Ramsay chasing and pulling the ties out of her hair. Nor when he told her he was Roose Bolton's son, instead she threatened him with the snarling dog that watched him from her side. Was not scared the day he introduced her to his little hunting game. Not scared when she offered to let him hunt her for fun, running barefoot through the woods yelling to catch her if he can, or when she stumbled out the edge of the woods with loud giggles and hands in the air victoriously. _**(** _ He'll never forget that stupid grin on her face, daring him to get angry she won and hurt her anyways. _**)**_

               “Ram, I'm scared.” It's the old nickname that drags him out of thoughts, calloused fingers move to brush dark hair out of her face. A frown as her hair sticks to the blood on her temple, hushing her as he readjusts. Fishing for his damn knife as he continues to tell her things will be fine. It'd be better to end it quick for her.  She does not deserve to suffer, she didn't deserve that end.

               She knows, it's a lot quicker to click in her thoughts, undamaged arm reaching for his sleeve. Stop him before he can do as he thinks will helps. “Will you, will you say it?” It's his turn to pale, he can't. He knows he can't. “It's the only thing you've never given me.  _ Please _ .”

               Lips part, his throat is suddenly much drier. The knife in his hand is rested against her thigh, in a way so as not to cut her. What can he say?  _ Those _ words, the ones she begs him to say, are not a part of his vocabulary. What  _ can _ he do? What does he say instead? Instead he goes to the words that matter the second most to her, wets his lips before he speaks again; “You know, even bleeding like this you're the most beautiful woman I've ever met. Gorgeous.”

               Blue eyes slip closed as her face buried against his shoulder. “Really? You promise?” She shouldn't have expected any more from him, she knows his troubles. She forgives him. She loves him.

               “When am I known to lie?” That in itself brings her painful laughter, a hoarse version of the same laugh she had years before. Blood comes with it, coughing up onto his shirt as the pad of his thumb moves to brush the color away. “I promise.”

               He's moving to slide the knife, going to put her out of her misery before he realizes she's already gone limp. He's on the verge of tears, an emotion he didn't know he  **HAD** . “—Myranda?” The knife is slid back into the holster, moving her head to see if she'll respond. All he's met with is a limp body, smile on her features.

               Even if she's dead, he's gentle as he stands up. Her body held against him as he carries her, steps slow. She'll be cleaned, and fed to the dogs. A request she'd made ages ago. He leaves her in his room, there she will not be disturbed. Laid on the bed, eyes shut and body entirely still.

               He calls upon his best men, his best attempts to sound levelheaded are feeble. The anger drips through; “Find me Sansa Stark and Theon Greyjoy. Alive.” He intends to make them suffer.  It's what she would have wanted . “They will learn what it means to feel pain”


End file.
